


Dorito Dust

by wolfgirl232



Series: New York City Heat [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Breathplay, Collegestuck, Dom!John, Japanese Honorifics, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Sexual Tension, Sub!Dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfgirl232/pseuds/wolfgirl232
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home after his last class of the day, only to find his obnoxious flatmate Dave being as irritating and undeniably hot as ever. And with John on the brink of sexual tension, things are about to get heated...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Barrier

You bang the stained door at the top of the stairs on the third floor open, kicking it shut behind you, your fingers sliding the lock chain into it’s niche with practiced dexterity. The familiar sound of gunfire echoes off the walls of your shitty apartment in downtown Manhattan. You shrug, diverting your eyes from their off-white stains and water-damage ripples by habit. Better than the walls of that monochrome slate gray meteor, you suppose. At least here there’s natural sunlight.

You wince as the step forward tightens your jeans even further. You desperately need to get to your room. That Japanese guy on the bus wouldn’t stop licking his lips, and that was enough for you. The thought that such a simple thing could arouse you so completely beyond your control bothers you. But not shocks. Considering how long it’s been since anything even remotely resemb— no no not here don’t think about that here. You actually want to make it into your room. 

You haul in a breath that tastes like Doritos and stride forward into the apartment.

You follow the bullet sounds into the open area that is your living room. And dining room. And kitchen. Hell, you just really don’t want to think about that. You’re riled up enough as it is. You try desperately to remain oblivious to the sandwich remains strewn about the little island of a countertop, the lone sentinel to mark where an outside kitchen wall might be. It tries its best you suppose.

The television attached to the far wall strobes with automatic fire, throwing Dave into silhouette. His shoulders are hunched and yet cocky, tilted to one side as the first person player in the game runs sideways past an abandoned oil tanker. “I’ll vacuum, my ass,” you mutter under your breath, chucking your house keys onto a cardboard box, aka your new end table. What a fine hunk of cardboard. Choice.

You realize the staccato noises being flung around between the high-vaulted walls aren’t all from an AR. Mixed in with the sounds discarded shells falling is the “nak-nak-nak” of Dave’s little red alligator friends, who jump up and down excitedly as Dave makes another kill.

“Don’t you think you should be a better influence?” You ask rhetorically as you make your way to the hallway leading from the back of the room. “It’s no wonder the Proud Lizard Parents Association is lobbying for stricter video game ratings.” You do your best impression of Dave’s humor: bad, extended metaphor, dry as fuck.

“Actually, they seem to think I’m killing victims of doomed timelines.” Dave murmurs, shades providing a perfect mirror image of the violence. You hate those shades sometimes. While they define Dave, they hide from you all the subtleties of expression that you crave from him. But, like the sandwich, better leave that idea abandoned. Let Dave get salmonella. And his own hand. Shit, where did that come from? You really need to control your thoughts better. This is just your dick talking.

“That is not a thing that is okay,” You note. “Also, how on earth do you know what they think you’re doing?” There is no reply to that, as Dave has to run like hell to escape a grenade, just making it around a corner in time to save himself. You sigh and turn to leave, but his voice draws you back, melodic amongst the gunfire.

“Want to play?”

You know it’s only an invitation to grab a game controller, but your breath hitches in your throat and your cock pulses once, insistent. Yes you would _love_ to play. You would love to see those lips wrapped around your dick and those wrists pinned uselessly under your hands, shoulders straining...

No! No you can’t think about that, he’s your fucking flatmate. No just your flatmate. And straight. And also he’s Dave. 

So you tuck your burning back into it’s padded cell in your mind, and try to keep from outwardly seething. As you have managed for months.

You set your jaw, replying calmly, “No, I’m good. Think I’ll take a nap.” Friction, you need friction.

“You sure bro? You could come with me and slay everything in sight instead. Be fucking Lord English up in here, let the bodies hit the floor.” His fingers twitch rapidly on the controller and your mouth goes dry. But you’re not thinking about it.

“No, I’m good.” You turn away again, trying to fight bolting down the hallway. But his voice stops you again.

“Mind passing me those Doritos over there?” His head gestures vaguely to the kitchen counter. “Brother’s gotta fuel this fire. And this conflagration can only be fed with the chemically triangular goodness that is so very far out of my reach.”

Your blood boils, fed by the flame that is your libido, your lust, and your anger at his naivety. And _him_ asking _you_ to do anything when it should so obviously be the other way around. You should be demanding that he drop to his knees before you—

In an attempt to distract yourself, you walk briskly over to the kitchenish and snatch the red bag from among the sandwich battlefield. Winding up, you hurl it across the room, smirking as it lands neatly at Dave’s feet, making him jump. His reaction jolts the joystick on his controller, and his analogue jumps sideways awkwardly, directly into a mine.

“Fuck!” Comes the narration to the fiery scene on the television, and you use the distraction as cover to stride across the room quickly, almost making it to the end of the hallway this time before he calls you back.

“John, goddamnit! I was all up in my streak right there! I was about to have as much glory as the conquistadors didn’t! I could practically taste the godliness bestowing itself upon me!” You peek around the corner of the hall and snicker as he nonetheless reaches forward to snatch up your projectile.

“Yeah, but now at least, thanks to me, you can taste something even better.” You smile widely at your own joke, lips pressed together in irony.

As Dave switches off the game, the little red lizards bumble across the room on their stout little legs, no doubt making their way upstairs to Jade’s apartment. They love playing with Bec, and now that Dave is no longer providing entertainment, they are off to find him. However, they find they are all too short to reach the door handle, and so you take pity, crossing the room once more to open the door for them, sighing as you close it after the procession.

By now, you really are seething. You swing your messenger bag in front of you to conceal your raging boner as you stride purposefully to your bedroom, the light at the end of this hella long tunnel.

But, no, of course not, because Dave, too, has gotten up off the couch, making his way toward the hallway, undoubtedly to his own bedroom to screw around with his turntables. Doritos in hand, he lazily meanders before you, and you stare daggers into the back of his head. Could he walk any more slowly?

His bedroom door is just before yours, but instead of opening it, he turns to face you, leaning against the doorjamb. “Want to hear this new beat I came up with? It’s got some sick progressions in it that I heard once in this jazz piece Latula showed me...”

Halfway through his lazy proposition something inside you snaps. You are fucking sick and tired of living like this. Of hiding from your flatmate, from your half-assed one-night stands, and from yourself. It is about time you got even a taste of what you deserve, and so you fling your messenger violently to the floor, and advance toward your fragile blond bro, one hand reaching for his throat.


	2. Pulse

You have to admit, John looks a bit deranged when he gets home, and no matter what you say to him, his replies seem strained and biting, despite his forced nonchalance.

But nothing compares to the outright terrifying look on his face when you stop in the hallway to ask him if he wants to hear your sick new jam. His eyes are wild and his jaw tight, and the way he’s staring at you makes you feel like a snack. And not even a good snack, like Doritos. No, like some fancy-ass cucumber shit that cost a fuck ton but tastes like crap, served at an upscale dinner party that no one really wants to be at.

Granted, it’s not that you completely mind. Despite considering yourself straight, you never were able to overcome your silly little bro-crush. And John exudes this strange power, the one that makes you fantasize late at night when you give up on sleep. That intoxicating force that seems to scream “in charge”. Frankly, you’re not sure anyone else can see it, considering how well he conceals it behind his silliness. And while John is side-splitting funny, and in appearance is such a try-hard little dork, you know that he is capable of much more than he lets on to.

And you sometimes think you wouldn’t mind finding out how much more.

So when he advances on you as you lean casually on your door frame, you are surprised, but not shocked. Adrenaline courses through your blood as the fear rises in your throat. But it’s only John! Your head insists. Silly little John who wears blue pajamas and controls the fucking springtime breeze.

You can almost feel the strikethrough of the words in your head as his fingers wrap around your neck. Your head falls backwards as he pulls your face close to his, your chests slamming together. He has one foot between yours and his eyes are hard.

“You are _insufferable_ , do you know that?” He’s practically hissing, and his diction is impeccable. Your English-major ass swoons, ears revelling in his perfectly sharp consonants. Your lips part as you mentally catalogue your position, realizing what it is that is pushing so insistently into your hip. Blood pounds in your ears as your back arches so very infinitesimally, pushing back.

John growls, faint, deep in his chest, his other hand capturing your wrist and pinning it to the wall above your head. The bag of chips falls forgotten to the floor. Holy shit. _Holy shit._ He actually is. If this is his idea of flirting, you’re all down. You’ve had enough of trying to make your girlfriends condescend, or seeking out the services of those supposedly dominating enough to provide you with just an ounce of the satisfaction that you seek so desperately. But they never get it right. Once you even tried a man, but that only left you bruised and terrified, limping home in the early morning, too ashamed to catch a cab.

You immediately slip into place, your eyes widening a little, your mouth falling slack, offering up your submission in your features as obviously as you can. John’s eyes darken, and he leans forward, the tip of his tongue tracing the outside of your lips, lifting off the Dorito dust. His hips press yours into the wall, the length of his dick straining against your upper thigh. You whine with need, and his teeth come down on your bottom lip, biting hard. You can feel your own cock harden immediately, pulsing with heat and painfully confined.

Abruptly, he steps away, and you almost topple onto the floor. He catches you by the hair, his grip tight, and he drags you down the hall.

Inside his room is cool, the soft blue of the walls making the afternoon sunlight ambiently calming. The setting contrasts oddly with it’s tenant, who throws you to the floor, the carpet breaking your fall. He shuts and locks the door behind him, and comes to stand over you.

You rise to your knees obediently, head tipped back to meet his gaze. He removes your aviators, folding them and hanging them from the collar of his button-down. He cups your face in his hand, thumb skimming over your cheekbone. Your eyes drift half-shut, relaxing into his caress. This is someone who would care for you, who would make sure you stayed whole, even when you were broken. You know this instinctively, suddenly, and you wonder why you had never asked this from him before.

But just as simply, you know the answer. Because it had to be at his instigation. You could never have asked for his attention, because this is only for him. And you both know it.

He smiles down at you, and a spark lights his eyes suddenly. “Stay,” he commands, and you go stock-still. He moves out of your line of sight, and you can hear him rummaging under his bed for something, listening intently as the intriguing sounds of metal jingling together speeds your heart rate.

You can sense him behind you, and his hands move in front of your face, holding a strip of metal and leather taught. He encircles your neck with the collar and fastens it tightly, not enough so as to be uncomfortable, but enough to feel secure. When it is locked in place, he slips two fingers between it and your spine, tugging to test the tightness. Satisfied, he comes to stand in front of you again.

“There, much better,” he muses, just before he stoops to clip a metal chain to the o-ring at the base of your throat. He pulls forward on the lead sharply, causing your lips to collide with the strained seam of his jeans. Holy fuck, that’s hot. Your lips open obediently, stroking his dick through the denim. His sharp intake of breath is your reward, and you look at him from underneath your lashes.

Maintaining his hold on your leash, he undoes his pants, reaching into his underwear to bring forth his cock. The breath catches in your throat, and your eyes snap to his, begging. His lips quirk upward, and his fingers slide along his length languidly, teasing.

“Ask nicely kōhai,” His voice is low, and you shiver, because _fuck yes._

The words spill from your mouth, your eyes pleading. “Please, please let me suck you, fuck my mouth, please—”

“Please, what?” He raises his chin expectantly.

Your eyes lower, and your hands twine demurely behind your back. “Please Sensei,” you whisper.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice. He pulls you forward, and your tongue stretches out eagerly toward his cock, and you hum in contentment when the flavor of his precum blooms in your mouth. You lap at his head obediently, whining pathetically. One of his hands weaves into your hair, gently pulling you closer. Swirling your tongue in a circle, you wrap your lips around him and dip your head downward, taking him into your mouth. He tastes sweet and metallic and his scent is making you heady.

He lets you make a few more passes up and down his shaft before he takes over, the hand in your hair guiding you roughly. You slacken your muscles, your throat opening, and let him force his way as deep as he can, pulsing into your mouth. You look up at him again, moaning in the back of your throat. The vibration blows his eyes wide and your brow raises in a plea to be used.

You know you haven’t permission to touch yourself, and your nails bite into your hands behind your back, clinging desperately to fight the urge. Your dick is rock hard inside your jeans and you curse yourself for choosing tight pants today, of all days. Well, at least you look damn good.

Your thoughts are starting to haze over with what little oxygen you’re getting while your throat is being fucked, but you don’t mind in the slightest. In fact, your pulse only speeds up as John pulls you down by your leash, his dick filling your throat completely, and traps you there. Your eyes flick up to his once more, and he stares down at you. His stare screams possession, and your head is spinning with want. Because you want so badly to belong to him.

Just when you think you might pass out, he pulls out of your mouth, allowing you to raggedly drag in a breath. Your chest heaves as he winds the lead once around his hand and pulls you toward the bed. When you are kneeling beside it, he drops the chain and discards his shirt in one smooth movement, not bothering with the buttons, careful to set your glasses on a shelf. He in turn removes your shirt, and then shucks off his jeans, letting them fall with his underwear to the floor.

When he is completely naked, he motions for you to sit on the edge of the bed, and you follow his unspoken order quickly. You want to prove how good you can be, how he ought to keep you. Because you would die for him to keep you.

He kneels between your legs, pushing your knees apart to accommodate him. Unbuckling your belt, his fingers linger unnecessarily on the bulge in your pants, the seam tight across your hips. You moan softly, and he smirks again, the sadism on his features heating your skin.

“Someone seems to be enjoying himself. Am I right kōhai?”

“Yes, Sensei,” you pant, watching intently as he unzips your black jeans and tugs them down your legs.

When your briefs have joined your pants on the floor, he drags his teeth up along the inside of your thigh, laughing slightly as you tremble. He sinks his teeth into your hip and you cry out, your hands fisting in his bed sheets.

He stands again, moving to his bedside table and procuring a small bottle from the drawer. You watch as he slicks himself down, his cock twitching eagerly at his own touch. Crossing to you again, he pushes your shoulder down, and you lie back, thighs draped over the edge of the mattress.

You feel completely exposed, still a little afraid, and _very_ much excited. Your body aches to be bent to his will, and your restlessness betrays you.

You nearly jump ten feet in the air when his hand finds your dick, coating it in lube. With no intention of pleasing you, he merely ensures you are sufficiently coated before he pulls away, ignoring your breathy moans and arched spine.

Before you can think to beg, he is straddling your hips, one hand planted beside your head, the other wrapping around both his member and your neglected cock. He rocks his hips into you, and you practically scream, your hands flying to his shoulders. While he strokes you against his dick, you spread your legs as wide as they will go, your throat bared upward.

The hand beside your head collects both of your wrists and holds them above your head. You moan again at his show of dominance, more loudly, and raise your hips to meet his, matching his thrusts.

His lips move to your shoulder and neck, sucking, kissing, biting, hurting and caressing you in equal measure. Your eyes close and you stop breathing for a moment, focused completely on the grip of his hand and his teeth breaking your skin.

So you can hear perfectly when his lips move to your ear and he whispers, “Come for me, slave.”

You explode, his command sending you over the edge. And it is such a very long way down. You are aware, mostly, of his hips snapping forward a final time before he spills out onto your chest. You swear loudly as the last of your orgasm passes, and you collapse, shaking, onto the bed.

John gathers you to his chest, his breath loud in your ear. Your body trembles violently under him and you have no idea why you are suddenly crying, but the release it brings makes you unable to stop. He rolls sideways and brings you with him, curling around you while he wipes the tears from your cheeks. “Shhh, hey,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Relax sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m right here.”

You sob uncontrollably into his shoulder, and he lets you, cradling your head. You have no idea what’s wrong, mostly because nothing is wrong, but you are so completely overwhelmed. Because this is everything you’ve ever wanted, and needed, and you feel stupid for trying so hard to find what was sitting in your living room every night. And you feel violated when you compare John to everyone else who’s ever touched you and you just want so badly to stay curled up here forever and not think and float in this never-ending subspace.

When you are finally out of tears, John leaves you for only a moment, fetching a hand towel from the bathroom damp with warm water. He wipes your chest and stomach clean tenderly, removing the sticky residue from your skin. When you are both clean, he pulls back his covers and brings you into bed with him, chin on your shoulder as he unfastens your collar. He chucks it carelessly over the edge of the bed.

You nuzzle into his neck while he strokes your shoulder blades and you are so completely blissfully drained. He presses his lips into your hair and speaks to you softly. “You were so good for me Dave, so very good...”

You drift off to the hum of his voice, and the knowledge that you needn't worry whether he will keep you as his own. Because you have both finally come home.


End file.
